


Ode to Midnight

by crystallines



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: High School, M/M, Mortal AU, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-19 23:31:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystallines/pseuds/crystallines
Summary: And Ethan finds himself falling twice: first into a sort of easy harmony on a crowded dance floor, then headfirst into love.





	Ode to Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pipermclean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipermclean/gifts).



It’s like this: the debate team decides on a fundraising event just before winter break, so Luke and Ethan are charged with the organizing because Clarisse and Silena simply don’t feel like it, and they show up to Winter Formal in blazers with matching poinsettia lapel pins and _suddenly_ everyone thinks they’re an _item._

Which they’re not. 

Obviously. 

They’re just here to sell _refreshments,_ Jesus Christ. 

Their student council has chosen to host the dance in the stuffiest possible ballroom in a hotel somewhere downtown. Sparkling LED Christmas lights are strung up around the walls, the icy blue wallpaper is tacky in the reassuring way of school dances, and overly familiar ’90s holiday songs blast from the bulky speakers stationed at every corner, setting the dance floor subtly atremble. 

There’s also an enormous fake tree in the middle of the dance floor, which, well, sort of defeats the purpose of having a dance floor in the first place. Not that anyone seems to _mind_ ; they merely skirt around it, twirling and tapping, oblivious to the glass ornaments dangling precariously from the silver foil leaves. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t have matched,” Ethan murmurs, after a group of freshmen boys hand him wrinkled dollar bills in exchange for a few of Luke’s overpriced homemade cookies.

Luke looks hurt. “Why? Silena and Clarisse are color coordinated.” 

“Silena and Clarisse are _dating!_ ” 

“They’re just flowers, you know. _Christmas_ flowers. We’re at a _Christmas-themed_ event. No one is going to think we’re, like, _together_ together—” 

“And if they do?”

“Not going to happen.” 

“You owe me ten dollars if it does.” 

Luke throws up his hands in a gesture of defeat and leans back in his folding chair, although he jerks up again when it threatens to collapse under his weight. Ethan coughs in an attempt to disguise his laughter, but judging by Luke’s withering glare, he doesn’t do a very good job of it. 

The next person who comes up to their table isn’t a potential customer, but Chris Rodriguez from the track team that Ethan used to be on. His beam is genuine, and so are his words when he says, “We were _wondering_ when you’d get together! I’m so happy for you both.” 

He watches, bemused, as Luke gives a sigh of resignation and fishes in the pockets of his slacks for his wallet.

\- - -

They’ve been sitting at their table long enough for the playlist to loop twice when Luke declares, “God, this is _boring_. Can we do something else?”

Ethan taps his fingers aimlessly on the Formica tabletop. “We still haven’t raised enough to fund our trip to nationals.” 

“Oh, _please._ We still have, what, three weeks? Deadline’s in January, isn’t it?” Luke shakes his head. He gets to his feet and offers a hand. “Come dance with me.” 

Ethan’s throat runs dry. “What?” 

“I asked you to dance with me?” It sounds like a question.

_“What?”_

Luke raises an eyebrow. “Do you need a demonstration or something? You know, that thing where you step on the other person’s feet and realize that you actually have no sense of rhythm until it’s too late, and then you feel like a complete idiot but somehow it doesn’t bother you all that much—” 

“I know what it _is_ ,” Ethan snaps. “Just— _now?_ And why _me?_ ” 

Luke shrugs. “Because I feel _comfortable_ around you? But it’s okay if you don’t want to—I’ll understand if you don’t want people to get the wrong idea—” 

“You think it’s wrong?” Ethan asks, and he isn’t sure why the answer is so important to him, but it _is_. “The idea, I mean?” 

“ _No_ ,” Luke says, perhaps a little too quickly. He seems to realize this in the split second immediately after the word is out, because he takes a breath to compose himself and amends, “It’s just—it’s not _wrong_ in that sense, exactly. There’s nothing wrong with people in a _relationship_ , but the idea itself—is _incorrect_ , is all, since, you know, since we’re not—” He swallows. He doesn’t finish. There’s a flush high on his cheeks.

“Okay,” says Ethan.

Luke blinks. “Okay?” 

In answer, Ethan takes his hand. There’s something about the warm weight of Luke’s palm in his own that makes his pulse stumble, but he’s being pulled to the dance floor and they’re leaving the table behind before he can think about it for too long.

“No, Ethan,” Luke says, and the corners of his lips only barely quirk upwards, a surefire sign that he’s holding back a smile. “You’re not supposed to put your hands there.” 

Ethan takes his hands off of Luke’s shoulders like he’s been burned, but then Luke takes his wrist and guides it to his waist. “Just one,” he instructs. “The other hand goes here. You’re complete shit at this, aren’t you?” 

Ethan’s first instinct is to say _I told you,_ except he _didn’t_ tell Luke, so he shuts up. He lets Luke guide his movements; he steps forward when Luke steps back, and vice versa, and it’s simple when he figures out how to sway with Luke instead of with the music.

Luke is right: Ethan has no fucking _clue_ what he’s doing, but somehow it doesn’t matter. 

From there, it’s a whirlwind of motion; they’re surrounded in spicy colognes and fragrant perfumes, the swish of fabric and an avalanche of dress shoes and high heels and ballet flats. Laughter. Snatches of conversation. It’s _chaotic._ Whimsical, almost, like a dizzying daydream. Luke is the only thing grounding him, the only thing tangible enough to be real.

And Ethan finds himself falling twice: first into a sort of easy harmony on a crowded dance floor, then headfirst into love. 

It’s a good thing the song is a slow one; otherwise, he thinks he might’ve tripped. 

\- - -

Clearly, they don’t reach their fundraising goal that night. 

It’s a miracle, really, that nobody went to their abandoned table and just— _took the box._ They have Silena and Clarisse to thank for that. 

“Guess we’re going to see each other a lot over the break, huh?” Ethan ventures as they stumble into the darkened streets. It must have snowed while they were inside; Lower Manhattan is caked with the remnants of a flurry. Red neon and green LED grace the storefronts and windows; there’s a Salvation Army ringer wearing a Santa hat at the corner of the street, with whom Ethan steadily avoids eye contact. 

Luke looks at him for a long moment, and then he says, “Well, considering I live _next door—_ ” 

“I meant for the fundraising,” says Ethan, although he didn’t. Not _really_ , anyway.

“Yeah.” Luke sucks in a breath. “Yeah, I think we will. I mean, we sort of _have_ to, right?”

So Ethan wakes up early— _too_ early—the next day, knocks on Luke’s door, and heads with him to a shopping mall to wrap presents for a fee. They sit at yet another table outside a Barnes and Noble on the second floor of the mall; Ethan catches sight of people shouldering their way through the crowd of last-minute Christmas shoppers, and their chatter drowns out the carols playing from the speakers.

Ethan wonders if they’re using the same playlist from their very own Winter Formal.

The beginnings of a headache are already itching at his temples, and they haven’t even been here for twenty minutes.

Their first customer is a middle-aged woman in a business suit who talks mostly into her mobile, sparing only nods and hand gestures for Luke and Ethan, who exchange discreet exasperated glances between them. It’s only _after_ she leaves them a box of—$200 for _saucepans? Seriously?_ —and is out of earshot that Luke says, “I’ve never actually wrapped gifts before.”

“You’ve never—” Ethan begins, incredulous, but then he figures he should’ve known. He sighs and reaches for the gift wrap; it’s a mistletoe pattern in a decidedly audacious shade of green. “Okay. _Okay._ Um, you can tape down the folds, I guess—”

“Or,” Luke suggests, “you could do all the work, since I’d just be getting in the way—”

“Absolutely not.” 

His shoulders droop in defeat, and it’s such a rare moment of vulnerability that, for a jarring moment, Ethan doesn’t know what to do with himself. It passes in an instant, though, because then Luke is reaching for the Scotch tape and strategically changing the subject, saying, “So, are you doing anything tomorrow?” 

The saucepans are heavy; Ethan has to strain to maneuver them onto the gift wrap. “Huh?” 

“Are you,” Luke repeats, “ _free?_ ” 

“Yeah,” says Ethan. “I mean, I’m not seeing anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

When Luke doesn’t answer for five solid beats, Ethan looks up from the saucepans, catches sight of Luke with his jaw unhinged, and raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“That’s _not_ what I was asking, but that’s—that’s nice. To know. That’s nice _to know._ I guess.” He clears his throat. “I was just wondering if you wanted to come to Silena’s party. With me. Tomorrow.” 

“But tomorrow’s Christmas.” 

“Yes,” Luke agrees. “It’s a Christmas party. I think that’s the point.” 

“It’s _her_ party,” Ethan points out. “You sure you’re in a position to just— _invite_ people? I mean, I don’t even know her all that well.”

“She’s hosting it for _the debate team_. You’re part of us. And anyway, you and me? We’re practically a package deal.” 

Somehow Ethan doesn’t think this is all too likely. Maybe it’s the way Luke is grinning bright enough to power a house—Ethan recognizes it for the defense mechanism that it is. Maybe it’s Luke’s tendency to give away the beginning and the end of a story, with a missing link in the middle. 

Or maybe Ethan is overthinking. Again. 

Whatever the case, he hears himself say, “Sure,” and when Luke pats him absentmindedly— _companionably_ —on the shoulder, Ethan burns from the inside out.

\- - -

They finish wrapping the saucepans and move on to dollhouses and jewelry and an entire selection of expensive sweaters from the Nordstrom on the first floor. Hours pass; their customers return to pick up their freshly wrapped gifts. Slowly, the crowd begins to trickle out of the mall and into the streets. 

Luke nods off eventually, his cheek resting on Ethan’s shoulder. The warmth of him seeps through Ethan’s thin jacket, and Ethan freezes. He is all too aware of his own breathing; he’s afraid he’ll disturb this peace if he so much as takes a breath the wrong way. 

_That_ lasts all of ten minutes. And then he can’t take it anymore.

“You know what?” says Ethan. “Fuck this.” 

Luke starts. He blinks blearily and squints at Ethan. “What?” 

“It’s _Christmas Eve,_ Luke. We shouldn’t be fundraising for our trip to nationals. We should be, I don’t know, doing whatever it is people do on Christmas Eve. Fundraising for _charity?_ Shopping for gifts? Have we picked out anything for Silena yet? Or Clarisse?” 

“No. We probably should, though.” Luke reaches over and peers inside their cardboard box of earnings. “How much did we—?”

“Like, ninety dollars, I think. Almost a hundred.”

“Then we should be okay.” He grins. “You want to go get dinner at the food court, maybe look around the mall a bit? We might find gifts for them here.”

Ethan is nodding when he remembers, “I didn’t bring any cash.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” says Luke, but he voices it in such a way that the words almost sound like terms of affection. “Whatever. I’ll pay for dinner. _And_ for anything we might get at the stores. But you’re going to have to pay me back half for those.”

“Deal.”

The only thing even remotely appetizing at the food court turns out to be Chinese fast food. The mall is almost closing by the time they finish; the two of them are alone for miles, and the cheery holiday music echoes hollowly throughout the mall.

Still—when Luke loops his arm through Ethan’s—he can’t help thinking this feels like a date, sort of. 

\- - -

He forgot: He’s not a party person. He’s not even _Christian._

At Silena’s party, he finds himself standing a little ways off from the others, taking in the sight of her parents’ decorated apartment and fighting off a vague sense of isolation. Again with the LED Christmas lights. Again with the silver ornaments dangling from the fir tree.

It’s a small gathering. _Intimate._ Actually, it’s only the people from their own debate team: him, Luke, Clarisse, and Silena herself. He gets asked about the fundraising—“It’s going _great_ , yes, we’re on track to finish by January second, maybe even earlier”—and poorly concealed questions about the nature of his relationship with Luke—“ _No_. We’re just friends. Where’d you get _that_ idea?”

He wonders if anyone will notice if he just— _slips out_ , and then decides to take his chances.

He finds himself on the fire escape of Silena’s apartment. The stars are hidden behind a sheen of pollution, but the air is as cold as ever. It sets goosebumps to his exposed arms and his nerves on edge. The sounds of chatter and laughter float to him from the open doorway as he rests his arms on the railing and looks down at the streets below. They’re brightly-lit, but still—they’re lonely.

“Hey.”

He whirls, but it’s just Luke. 

Of course it’s Luke. 

“Don’t you have a party to get back to?” Ethan asks. 

“Yeah, but so do _you_ ,” Luke returns, and Ethan doesn’t respond. He’s quiet as Luke maneuvers to Ethan’s side; the fire escape is cramped, and their shoulders are squeezed together like the last pieces of a puzzle that don’t quite fit. Again, Ethan is too afraid to breathe. “Merry Christmas.”

His wineglass has grape juice in it, but he still raises it to Ethan and downs it as Ethan reminds him, “I’m Shinto. But merry Christmas to you, too,” he adds.

He laughs. “Then why are you _here?_ ”

Ethan shrugs. “Because you asked me to come, I guess.”

“So if anyone _else_ had asked, you wouldn’t have come? You would’ve told them you’d think about it, and then spent a whole week weighing the pros and cons until the con side inevitably won?” Luke shakes his head. “But it’s different, when it’s me. Isn’t it?”

Ethan frowns. “Are you sure that’s not, like, _spiked_?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m pretty sure. Do you want to try it?”

“You’re not in a position to _psychoanalyze_ me,” Ethan says. He wishes the fire escape weren’t so small, that he had at least _some_ space to inch away from Luke, because he’s close, so awfully, _wonderfully_ close, and the scent of him is heady and overwhelming and Ethan can’t think straight. The only information his brain is capable of processing is, _I could kiss him here._

“Maybe not,” Luke allows. “But I’ve known you the longest out of everyone at _our_ shit school. Remember in freshman year, back when you were still on the track team, and you heard that high jumper you liked cheering for you, and you _tripped_ , right at the fifty-meter mark—”

“ _Hey_ ,” Ethan protests. He nudges Luke forcefully, but Luke just laughs. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that Ethan is just now noticing, but feels sure was there all along. “That was _four years ago._ Fuck off.”

“Do you still like her?” Luke asks. “The high jumper, I mean?” 

“It was four years ago,” Ethan repeats, and all the tension leeches from Luke’s shoulders like the air from a balloon. Ethan hadn’t even noticed it was there.

He would have liked to stay with Luke on the fire escape with only the covert stars as witness for the rest of the night, but then Silena calls them back inside for dinner. She gets caught under the mistletoe with Clarisse, which neither of them look _too_ upset about, and as they throw their arms around each other and Ethan cheers with Luke, he thinks of matching poinsettia lapels, and suddenly the notion of togetherness doesn’t seem all too bizarre anymore. 

\- - -

This is Luke’s reasoning: If _everyone_ in the team contributes, then they can reach their goal earlier and have the remaining week of winter break for themselves, which is why he suggests hosting an open mic night on New Year’s Eve. They all know better, though; he’s just tired of doing all the work. 

They’re still going to do it, though.

It’s less of a party and more of another team meeting; they argue about the specifics well into the night, and the timing, and how they’re going to go around promoting the event. They leave Silena’s apartment with a Google Document overflowing with their ideas, which is essentially a jumble of fragments in varying fonts. It’s almost entirely incoherent, and Ethan wonders if a mere week to plan will _really_ be enough. 

He didn’t have to worry, as it turns out.

Seven days later finds him with Luke at a department store downtown, inspecting all manners and kinds of lapel pins. It was Silena’s idea that the open mic night require a dress code, and it was Clarisse’s idea to borrow the dress code from Winter Formal. 

This is the fourth store they’ve visited in one afternoon. 

“I guess we could just reuse the ones we used at Winter Formal,” Luke says doubtfully, carefully returning a glittery blue pin to the tables. 

“Those are only for Christmas, remember?”

Luke just scoffs. “Like anyone’s going to notice.”

“So we could just—you know, fuck it all and _not_ wear any pins. Because no one’s going to _notice_."

It’s Luke’s fault that they’ve spent the better part of two hours downtown. Honestly, Ethan couldn’t care less whether or not he has a pin on his blazer, but of course they’re going together by unspoken agreement and Luke is invariably concerned with his appearance—or, in this case, _their_ appearance.

“We only have half an hour before open mic starts,” Ethan reminds him as they make their way down the aisles. “Clarisse is going to kill us if we’re late. _And_ you’re the MC. So maybe choose a pin so we can get out of here?”

“Yeah, okay. What do you think of these?” Luke holds up a pale blue satin flower. 

“Sure,” Ethan says. He isn’t really looking—he’s checking the time on his phone—but he thinks it might bring out the color in Luke’s eyes.

Luke has two of them in his hands when he looks up abruptly, his brows drawn together. “We don’t have to match.”

Ethan looks up from his phone screen and frowns. He’d sort of just... _assumed_ they’d match, like last time, so— “What? Why?”

“It’s just,” Luke says hastily, “I know how much it bothered you. When we matched. At Winter Formal. And everyone thought we were, like, _dating_. So if you don’t want people to start— _speculating_ again, then I—”

“Luke?”

And as Ethan watches Luke’s throat work as he swallows, he can’t help but wonder how important this seemingly benign thing really is to him. “Yeah?” 

He takes one of the flowers and turns it over in his hands. “I don’t mind.” 

\- - -

Open mic takes place in their school’s gym. 

Okay, so it’s not the most glamorous of locations. _Far_ from it, actually, because their school is a broke public school and the paint is peeling off the walls, and the stage is a cordoned-off area consisting of a rug dragged from an upstairs classroom, a microphone, and not much else. Folding chairs, folding tables, and any of the bleachers with a decent view of the makeshift stage make up the audience seating. It’s the best they could do; they’re lucky enough that the principal allowed them access to the gym on such short notice. And Clarisse’s attempts at decorating are decidedly halfhearted—Ethan thinks she just printed out an enlarged stock photo to serve as a background for their photo booth and called it a day—but it’s New Year’s Eve and the refreshments are free and no one _cares_ , not really. 

The team decided to charge five dollars per ticket, four for people with their school IDs. Turnout was high enough for them to surpass their goal, so they’re both going to nationals _and_ donating to charity. 

The list of people who’ve signed up to perform mostly consists of the school’s choir and writing club. Ethan slouches in the front row and listens to their poems and their songs and their monologues, and wonders how he could have gone to school with these people, ignorant to their talents. 

Sure, no one knows him. But then again, _he_ doesn’t know anyone, either.

And then there’s Luke. With his introductions and bad jokes between everyperformance, his uncanny ability to don a persona and become one with it, his easy smiles and his natural ability to make forty people in a room simultaneously fall in love with him. 

Ethan has known him since freshman year, but all he sees on stage is a stranger. 

The night drags on; there’s another poem, another song, another monologue. Then Luke takes the stage again and says into the mic, “Another round of applause for everyone who’s performed tonight, please—it takes guts to stand up and pour out your heart and soul to a room full of judgmental teenagers—”

Raucous applause in response. Luke waits for it to die down, then continues, “We’d _love_ to continue this, but it’s getting late, and the principals would have our asses—sorry, our _hides_ —if we didn’t finish by ten. Thanks for supporting our debate team, guys. We really appreciate it.” Then he finds Ethan’s gaze in the crowd. “And shoutout to Ethan Nakamura, that guy who’s falling asleep in the front row. He’s been helping me fundraise since September, and none of this would have been possible without his expert planning. Also, I’m desperately in love with him. Happy New Year, everyone!” 

\- - -

The first thing Ethan does, when their Uber driver is safely out of earshot and their apartment elevator has begun its familiar ascent to the twelfth floor, is push Luke against the wall and demand, _“What the fuck?”_

He has his hands on Luke’s chest. He’s not pressing hard enough to hurt; he just needs something to ground himself with, because his brain is short circuiting and nothing, _nothing_ seems real, and Luke happens to be the closest thing to him just now. He can see the flecks of black in Luke’s blue eyes, can count the acne scars on his cheeks—but none of that matters, not _now._

Luke still winces and wheezes a bit as he says, “You don’t have many people profess their love to you, huh?” Then he smiles faintly. “Although I can’t say that’s a bad thing.” 

“You—”

Their elevator doors whisper open at the sixth floor; a middle-aged man with a paper Whole Foods bag stumbles inside, and Ethan steps back to give Luke space as the doors close. As soon as the man exits at the eighth floor, Ethan whirls on Luke again and yells, “You can’t just do that to me!” 

“What?” Luke frowns. “Tell you that I—” 

_“No,”_ Ethan growls. “You shouldn’t call me out in a middle of a crowd and just— _announce_ something like that as a shock factor. It’s _not funny_. I mean—” He swallows. “ _I_ _mean_ , for all you know, I might _actually_ like you. And then you go around making jokes about it, and—well, how do you think I’d feel?” 

There’s a thick silence, broken only by a cheerful ding as they arrive at their floor. When they’re both at the doors to their respective next-door apartments, Luke says blankly, “You thought I was joking?” 

“Of _course_ you were.” Ethan fumbles with his keys; his hands are quaking with anger. Astonishment. All manner of shock and hurt. “Everything you saidon stage was a joke. It wasn’t even _you._ ” 

He shakes his head, because—well, Luke gives him so much _shit_ for never opening up, but Luke doesn’t let anyone know _him_ , either. Here are the things Luke is good at: Laughing. Joking. Making people love someone he isn’t.

He’s a contradiction of his own self.

Ethan scuffles with his door and manages to throw it open. His apartment is cold, dark, and empty—his mom is still out gambling, probably—but it’s a welcome sanctuary from the gaping emptiness threatening to envelop him as he stands next to Luke.

Luke’s hand snaps out; he takes Ethan’s wrist. Exhales. And—despite everything—Ethan still can’t find it in himself to wrench away.

“I,” says Luke. He swallows before trying again. “I, uh, don’t know how to break this to you, but I wasn’t joking.” 

“Nice try,” says Ethan. This time, he _does_ pull away.

He flicks the switch; his apartment floods with light. He’s turning in the doorway to say _goodnight_ and _see you at school_ when Luke lurches forward and kisses him square on the mouth.

And—oh. 

_Oh._

It’s wet and rough and harsh and altogether unpleasant, but it’s _Luke_ , and he’s got his arms around Ethan, pulling him close—closer than they were on the fire escape, even. Somehow it just feels... _right,_ like they’ve been steadily building up towards this single moment, and now they’re finally here, and they can breathe easy again.

Even after Luke’s lips leave his, Ethan keeps his eye closed for a few moments. Only when he trusts his voice not to waver does he say, “Unbelievable.” 

Luke’s eyes drop to somewhere around Ethan’s throat. “Should I—not have done that?”

“It’s just—I—I can’t believe that just happened.” Ethan pulls Luke into his apartment and clicks the door shut behind them. Part of his brain is saying _Your mom will go nuts if she finds out Luke is here,_ but the other half is too busy doing cartwheels to listen. “I mean, I’m not complaining _,_ or anything. But you should’ve _asked_ first. A warning would’ve been nice. And, _shit_ , you didn’t have to _announce it at open mic_.” He puts his blazer on the hanger before remembering to say, “I like you, too, for the record. Have liked you. For ages.” 

“Ages?” Luke echoes. 

“Shut up.” Then he thinks better of it. “Yeah. _Yeah._ I’ve liked _you,_ and no one else.”

And Ethan knows that Luke understands his meaning, because Luke drags his eyes down to the hardwood floors and says, “I didn’t know.” 

It’s strange, how light Ethan feels. Like he could float, almost. Of course they still have a lot to sort out—this is new and big and _confusing_ , after all, and he’s still just a little bit angry—but in this moment, Ethan’s desires are simple: He wants Luke, unarmored. 

He wants Luke to stay. 

Without thinking, he asks, “Do you want to watch the fireworks?”

Luke’s smile, when it comes this time, is hesitant and unfamiliar, but it’s so very different from the reflexive ones he caters to the crowds, and Ethan thinks he wouldn’t have it any other way. “In Central Park?” 

“No,” says Ethan. “Well, yeah. But on TV.” 

So they do, except they crash on Ethan’s couch and spend more time rediscovering each other than paying attention to the screen. And when the clock strikes twelve, they let their lips map out their own ode to midnight, tentative and full of promise, and the cheers on the TV sound like they’re just for them.

“Happy New Year,” Ethan whispers, and his voice is a little too loud in the silence that follows, but Luke looks as happy as Ethan feels and _honestly?_ That’s all that matters.

\- - -

Amazingly, nothing changes. 

They still go back to school in the second week of January. They still have to deal with everything they’ve always had to deal with: being on time for class, due dates, deadlines. They go to nationals in Utah—and _win—_ and go out for dinner together the same night, and the outrageous check is worth it, even if the glow of victory fades after a few months.

Mostly, Ethan’s life is this: going out with Luke after class, a corresponding sense of belonging, a P.O. box of college acceptance letters, a heady blend of uncertainty and anticipation, and— _oh,_ this is a new one—a motivation to open up and let himself grow.

And yes, this year—and onwards—looks like it’s going to be pretty good.

**Author's Note:**

> this one's dedicated to lily, who won my fic giveaway on tumblr! i hope you like it, and thanks for the support + friendship through the years!!! love u xx
> 
> the prompt was lukethan + new years/christmas, except i'm indecisive so i just...incorporated both jdhsjdj i hope u don't mind :')
> 
> thank you to everyone who's read this far, and happy new year! ❤️


End file.
